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happy, black eyes wet and bright like a deep cut welling up but she doesn’t cry, i never saw her cry at least. maybe it’s the expectation that comes with that name. happy with the big red knit coat. happy with the big laugh and you almost always see her teeth. i was fifteen when i met her. happy making peach tea she hides behind the fruit bowl so no one else can get at it. happy, hair in braids. happy’s voice that balloon-swells-up so you almost know without her telling you that her mother was a famous singer once. happy draws big eyes and mouths and teeth, only gets acid from people-you-can-trust, happy swallowing fifty advil? impossible. she only gets these bad stomachaches though, she says. never see her cry just laughs and laughs. ‘have you ever felt more suicidal,’ says happy, and ‘no,’ i say, and we laugh at that, too. happy, seventeen, happy making lists of the good drugs and the bad ones, and prozac’s not on the list, and cocaine’s pretty funny until your friends do it, happy laugh laugh laughing.
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